I'm a Chicken, So What?
by Night Strider
Summary: A fic about the wild Mitsui during the years prior to rejoining the basketball club and why he made the wisest choice at one important point of his life. One shot.


I'm a Chicken, So What?

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.

Summary: A fic about the wild Mitsui during the years prior to rejoining the basketball club and why he made the wisest choice at one important point of his life. One shot.

A/N: minimal dialogues, just reflections. You know the rule; I suck at dialogues alright. And I'd just like to warn you that this is angst-driven due to my own personal frustrations. Just kidding. But yeah, it's angsty.

And…and…it's another fic that tries to (but could not) unravel Mitsui and his disturbances, which means, I'm trying to say that I love Mitsui by writing this. Hahaha.

He no longer closes his eyes whenever he remembers that incident; rather he just lets the whole thing rewind by the gears of his memories' sanctuary, without feeling, without regretting, without sorrow. Nothing. It has been nothing ever since. Just like when he had kidnapped (catnapped) the neighbor's cat two years ago, stuffed it inside the microwave, and left it there for fifteen minutes, which would've been longer had not his furious mother came to the futile rescue of the freshly baked mammal. He remembers the owner of the doomed animal, a girl of fourteen suffocating her throat with sobs as he handed her back the obfuscated carcass enclosed in white linen of phony mourning; but he doesn't remember feeling the softest whip of remorse for doing it even when his parents grounded him for five days, even when youth his age banned him from their little cliques, and even less so when more notorious gangs courted him. But he recalls the staunch of fried skin with raw blood sticking underneath and the nausea of medium rare carnivorous meat which made him swear he'd never burn a cat again, ever. This, among other things, made him sure he had been the Playground Bully who was ever the object of impress-us amusement of his hectoring fellows, but he never really found out for himself whether it pleased him to be notorious. Or maybe he just didn't care, and why would he care when it felt so good not to give a solitary damn? And the past, which was just a few months ago, had been transformed into eons and it seemed so long since he held the Junior's League MVP trophy between his clutches and lifted it up, hoping the whole world could see what Hisashi Mitsui brought to Takeishi High. He had to smile to the audience for it and felt nothing against smiling and sharing his private emotions to the public because he knew he would go on grinning to himself even when he was alone.

But it was over too soon. He realized and refused to admit to himself that it would take a miracle for him to smile that certain smile again, unaware that it would only take another three years and a good deal of beating. Just because he had to suffer through the fucking knee injury. And remind him again that it was only the beginning of his darkest, remotest days, that burning the girl's cat into a failed barbecue wasn't the worst he had planned and that in doing so he had hurt no more than two beings; compare it to the malice he held against Shohoku's basketball club, it was all nothing to fuss about.

Bitterness was too obvious to bring up; while these untalented fops go in and out of the gym as if they were using the service room, he was marginalized here watching fervently and jealously when he could've been there instead, making a star of himself and bringing to Shohoku what he had for Takeishi High. But his knee was fucked and no way could he play the sport again, or so that's what he'd been telling himself all these years as he confronted the handsome, nearly wasted young man in the mirror whom he often called his stinking, ruined self. He would curse anything in sight to satiate his indignation, but never aspersing himself for the loss and always evading blame so as not to punish his guilt further. He would be muted in a trance after these fits of cursing, but the cursing part took so long it was almost hopeless to hope for the quieting part to come. That was his life; from his senior high freshman year to the start of his last senior year.

Then came his senior year when he had become more observant of the club's activities. He was more than irritated by the news about the club but not so much as he was angered by the team's hope to get to the Nationals. How the hell could they ever think of getting to the National level without him? How could they avail so much delusion for themselves when they didn't have anything like Hisahi Mitsui in their line up? He kept this quiet to himself and put its importance in the matter of later time where it could find proper expression. But the time proved to be prompt, coming a little earlier than expected as it brought the names of newcomers like Rukawa and Sakuragi, not to mention the return of Miyagi. Mitsui was a little afraid that by these three's appearance the team would and could make it to the Inter High competition. He wasn't about to let that happen. Not without his help.

He had told Hotta then what his thoughts were and told it with such dark and perverted enthusiasm, he did. The other, always ready to be subject under his commands, thought it was almost perfect. He had asked Hotta pick up Tetsuo so that the latter could take his share of fun. He agreed; and just fifteen minutes before midnight that September nine, Mitsui and six of his gang and Tetsuo's broke in Shohoku's entrance gate with their arsenals of destruction. He had planned to spray paint the gym's walls, to burn the curtains with the lighters they used to satisfy their smoke galore urges, to deflate the basketballs with their combat knives, to leave the water running till morning, to send down the rims' poles, and even to break the windowpanes. The plan was so perfect, so simple that it would've been foolish not to succeed at it.

Then their anticipation was turned into surprise when they learned that somebody got there first, or make that someone else was there. Mitsui heard the familiar sound of leather against the floor and was stirred by a long-ago love for that sound; dribbling. Somebody was rehearsing his moves at twelve midnight. Just two years ago he had been like that, as fascinated by the game as this nocturnal kid was now. He remembered he would've loved to stay all night dribbling, hooping, gliding through the air and loving the game; or perhaps he just didn't remember, but knew in himself he would definitely love so. The familiarity brought other things swiftly back to him, generally his life as a basketball man…

'Mitsui, Sakuragi is in. Shall we get him now?' one of his companions asked him, rolling up his sleeves as if very ready to fist fight.

He gave it a thought, deterred the other by the arm and said 'No.'

He had to back out at the last minute of covering the operation, much to the dismay and shock of his 'conspirants'. The would never understand why, with just a raised arm away, Mitsui decided to be disrespected this way. At that instant he had heard the screams of cowardice from deep within him, and amid the clutter there rose something less contemptuous; a solus sense. What was the point in beating this guy up and pigging the whole basketball court anyway? He had confessed to the group that he couldn't take any step further to pursue this ruination which he himself devised, and to himself he had professed sense and the absence of courage which he never thought to translate into open denial. He saw the mingled confusion and disappointment sweeping the faces of his boys despite the obscurity of the night's darkness, but more than that he had felt it through the momentary silence that embraced the group all of a sudden. Whatever their expressions were, Mitsui chose to ignore them afterwards. But from that hour hence, thirteen minutes past midnight amidst the echoes of Sakuragi's dribbling inside, Mitsui's gang had looked differently at him. Disdain, pity, and distrust; these words summed up those looks accurately and Mitsui received them with so-what-if-I'm-a-chicken-? glare. At least he wasn't the back stabbing bastard that they were. Talk about different kinds of chickens in the world. They left Sakuragi at his pitiable pleasure that night, peacefully and undisturbed.

He had never realized something as full as he had when he refused to go on with the plan. Maybe if he had been less of a coward and ravaged the gym he wouldn't be here practicing with his teammates, joking with Sakuragi, chatting with Kogure, and impressing Coach Anzai; if he did it, most probably he wouldn't have been accepted back to the team even in his second life, and going back meant everything to him. He knew very well that he didn't have the guts to destroy what he had so long considered as a sacred ground, but only knew he could make people such as his gang believe he had the guts to, which he clearly didn't. He remembers that night, September the ninth, without regret; he shouldn't really be compunctious about it, he didn't do it in the first place and he is proud he that he didn't. He didn't see it as a bad experience either; rather it was good because it gives substance to time else forgotten, those wild years when he had misconstrued his nostalgia with anger. Yeah, nothing was as bad about it as nothing was so depraved in burning a squeaky neighbor's cat. Nothing.

He looks back at the trouble that originated in physical pain, thrived in confusion and envy, and ended up in ruin only to be sequenced by a wonderful drama of homecoming. This is what he loves about his life; the tragedy of a story.

END

A/N: I'm writing everything I can now because I'll be away to the province for my job training/internship, meaning, I'll probably be deprived of internet access for two weeks! Jesus. Anyway, who cares? Aw, thanks for reading.


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